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| this is me being 31. |
Pray don't talk to me about the weather, Mr. Worthing. Whenever people talk to me about the weather, I always feel quite certain that they mean something else. And that makes me quite nervous. -Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest...Bobaloo made this recipe for meatball sub hotdish. Move over macaroni and cheese there is a new comfort food in town. We made ours with meatless meatballs and dang, this thing is good. For real.
April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain. -T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land...In other words, my brain is having a hard time connecting the dots. Again.
When a woman looks awesome, I tell her how awesome she looks. There is no way and no need to try to measure how my this-and-that compares with her this-and-that.
It happens all the time.
For a number of years I was very sad, insecure, and extremely thin. When out, it was amazing how insensitive people could be to someone they did not know, about an issue that was none of their business. Their words damaged what little confidence I had.
Time has passed. I am physically healthy. I wish I could say past issues are gone for good, but every once in a while they creep back into my awareness of not being good enough and not measuring up.
Words hurt. Yesterday a woman told me that I was gorgeous, BUT, I should really drink more water for a better complexion, do stomach exercises, and suck in my tummy. She went on about my flaws for a fair amount of time. I said nothing. I drew in each mean word and said nothing.
She was a stranger that I had only met an hour before.
She crushed me.
I am ashamed I sat there and spoke with her any longer after her words; I am angry I didn’t tell her to shove it. I am irritated that at twenty-eight this shit still bothers me.
I am embarrassed that I went home and cried.
And now I am blogging about it, because I cannot let it go.
One person’s words wrecked me yesterday.
My skin has gradually gotten a lot thicker in the last few years. I can deal with the vicissitudes of life a lot better now.
I have always been easily hurt by mean words, a little vulnerable. Maybe that is something that shouldn’t change.
I am not sure I want to become unfeeling or desensitized to meanness. That would imply that it is okay to be unkind. And it’s not.
I used to have a treasure chest Got so heavy that I had to rest I let it slip away from me Didn't need it anyway So I let it slip away. -Neil Young, Silver and Gold
Sometimes with our age difference it is a little difficult to find things in common to chat about. My brother is awesome at letting me know what is hip in music these days and has gotten me to enjoy Atmosphere and Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros quite a bit. I still don’t know much about that Kid Cudi fellow, but I am working on it.
Kyle is very interested in economics so I was pretty excited to share my vast knowledge that I had gained in one class with him. This is how it went:
Jill: Had my 1st economics class last night. Are you proud? Dad said if i need help to call you first, him second.
Kyle: Awesome! Is it micro or macro? Yeah i can totally help you out anytime.
Jill: Macro. But the amount of fun i am having is micro. Ha.
Kyle: Haha macro is my favorite im actually taking it right now
Jill: Yeah, i had to make a decision at the margin and after weighing my opportunity costs, i chose macro.
Kyle: Haha nicely put
Jill: I am trying to use the vocab in real life so i can remember it. Bobaloo is not going to enjoy this.
Kyle: Haha so he’s a negative externality?
Jill: I haven’t gotten to that word yet. I’ll let you know!
Kyle: Haha sounds good
*Also, when he responded to my first text I was in bed sleeping (I feel old and lame) so the rest of the conversation happened this afternoon.
I read some troubling news on Friday. A-Ha is breaking up after one last tour. I am devastated and overcome with both grief and uncertainty. Now don’t get me wrong, I cannot name any of their songs besides “Take on me,” but I feel that song helped shape me as a person in some way.
When I was a child I was transfixed by the music video longing to live in a world where morphing into a comic book character in a world of illustration was possible. Their catchy chorus was easy enough for my youthful brain to wrap around. The happy beat infected the heart of my soul and I would dance.
As I got older, “Take on me” became, well, kind of a guilty pleasure. If I was in the car alone, I would rock out while singing the lyrics without inhibition. There's just something about the tune that gives me absolute joy. If I was amongst my friends, I might have just hummed along calmly.
These days I sing it loud and proud. I car-dance to the melody if I need to. The song is in my iPod putting a skip in my step when it comes on and I am walking home from the bus stop. I can say it goes down as one of my top ten favorite songs in pop history.
So A-Ha, as you retire to enter the next stage of your lives please know you have been in the background for every stage in mine.
Thanks.
I went to the doctor’s office before work. The appointment was early, at 7:30. When I got there, there were only three cars in the parking lot. I was hoping the doors to the building would be unlocked. I hate waiting in my car for things, I always think other people think I am lurking. I went in and took the stairs to the third floor because elevators freak me out. If it got stuck who really would come right away and get me out. What if I am trapped in there with a cannibal who needs a snack or something? The door to the waiting room was locked and there was no one in the building. I walked around hoping there weren't any security cameras. I felt like I looked suspicious. I went back downstairs and called Bobaloo. When I told him that there was no one in the building he tried to calm me down and told me that a whole building isn't going to just not show up for work. I was early and maybe, just maybe, if I waited until my appointment time there would be people in the office. After I got off of the phone I was half reassured and half still panicking. My heart rate went up and I started to cry and to add to the lunacy I started breathing deeply through my nose hoping to calm myself down before the appointment. I must have looked like a tool.
At 7:25, I trudged back up the stairs and the office was open and I was out of breath. After I checked in, I sat and admired their oddly chosen wall art. The picture of the two fingers that I think is by Michelangelo and a weird Ansel Adams tree picture. The clocked ticked away and fifteen minutes went by. How can they be late if I am the first appointment? That added to the agitation. Finally I was called in by a young nurse. Little did she know about the impending morning meltdown that would arise. Immediately after the scale, she led me into the icy room with a view of the parking lot. Once the door was closed I preceded to bawl, I am talking some serious weeping. She took my vitals and tried to calm me down, then left, the poor thing. I grabbed a Kleenex off of the doctor's desk and tried doing the deep breathing again so I wouldn't appear as an emotional and outlandish person when the doctor came in.
She came in. I have seen her a couple of times before and she seemed nice enough. I don't know why, but I have always found doctors spine-chilling. She sat on a tiny black stool too close to me. I started crying again and she touched my knees and told me everything would be fine. From there, I calmed down. Good. Breathing is good.
How was the weekend? Bobaloo worked and I didn’t have plans so I spent a lot of time kicking it solo. Do you know what I realized lately? Kicking it solo makes me go a little crazy these days. I get a little glum and my thoughts take on a weird cycle of anxiety and trepidation. What a strange realization.
There was a time where I was content to be by myself and do my own thing. My dad used to call me his little lone wolf. I was able to listen to my tunes, read my books, do my writing, watch my television shows, and be left alone to my own devices. I would take the car for a drive by myself jamming to the radio and enjoying the sights of my travels. A walk around a lake in solitude was a great way to spend an afternoon.
Something happened somewhere down the line because now, being alone leaves me feeling well, alone. So, although it is a little late, the birthday resolution has been decided. I resolve to move forward by getting back to a place where I am content to spend some quality time with me and to do things that I enjoy without apprehension. That’s a good one, I think.
I dropped out of college after one week. I was in Fargo which was a telltale factor, and my resident advisor tried to save me. We had a “divine appointment with God.” I can chalk the whole experience up now as too much, too fast, too soon. Back in those days I wanted change so much, but flinched when it actually came to pass.
When I told my dad of my plans to drop out he understood and said something along the lines of, I know what it’s like to be somewhere you don’t want to be. He picked me up from Fargo and the ride back to Minneapolis was the longest (and quietest) I have ever experienced. We even stopped and ate Chinese food. During lunch, there were no lectures, no evil looks, and most importantly, no questions. As long as I wasn’t running away from something, I was able to go home.
But what was I running to? At the time, the last place I wanted to be after North Dakota was at home with my parents; I wanted out of the suburbs. I think I wanted to find myself, but that September instead of books and pencils, I got a job assembling cables for a neighbor. As the months grew colder I slid into desolation and despondency. I thought my life was tragic and I extracted myself from the world I thought I would live in.
I became a townie. I had two friends who stayed in town after graduation and the three of us would go to Denny’s every Tuesday and then catch some TV and play cards. My weekends were spent going back and forth to visit a good friend away at college. I lived in the suburbs; I made friends in the suburbs, partied in the suburbs, and lost myself in the suburbs. I hung out in Wal-Mart parking lots and went to the city to cruise. I went to bonfires, house parties, and the refinery to watch it twinkle like Emerald City. Somewhere along the way I even got banned from a country line dancing bar.
These days I don’t regret not getting a traditional education. Sure, dorm life would have been a hoot and I would have my diploma on a mantel somewhere near a cap’n’gown picture with my parents. A year and a half doing cable assemblies does teach you the importance of education. As a grown-up I take community college classes when I can and hope to get a four year degree by age thirty.
It’s hard to put my finger on what I learned from coming of age in the suburbs. It know it wasn’t street smarts or anything. I guess there were a few lessons. Sometimes you need your family when you don’t want to. Sometimes unlikely friends will become best friends before you know it. Sometimes you can fight to get out of the city you grew up in and come to miss it when you leave.
I was born during a blizzard in April. My grandfather gave me an American flag and told my parents that I had nice ears. I was olive-colored with black hair. My mother couldn’t believe that I was hers.
I remember living in the old house. I remember bathing in the sink and how tall my older brother was. I remember the green front steps with a wrought iron rail. I remember the hail storm and crying when my dad went out to take a picture. I remember the cartoons on the television set.
When we moved, my brother and I ran up and down and back and forth on the ramp of the moving truck. It was August and hot. The new blue house. The neighbors came over and one of the girls was pretending to be a monkey. She would turn out to be my best friend. We would sit in lawn chairs under the sprinkler and hold up umbrellas and eat orange push-ups.
Early memories are a blur, but they are there. I try to recall my first memories when I have trouble sleeping. Sometimes I dream about those days.
When I was young I was terrified of my dad’s mother, Grandma J. From very early on I found her to be loud, critical, and brash. I remember packing my Wuzzles bag for holiday trips to Eau Claire, Wisconsin and when I found out we were headed to her house I would howl and cry because I always wanted to visit my Grandma Cille first.
The apprehension for these visits didn’t die down until I was in my late teens. My brothers and I would sleep in her living room, the two of them on the floor in sleeping bags and me on the couch. When my older brother and I were teenagers we had mastered the art of sleeping in and had every intention of doing so while spending Christmas vacation at Grandma’s. Every year, without fail, Grandma J. would turn the oldies station on early in the morning blaring Christmas carols that stopped the sugar plums and fairies in our dreams dead in their tracks. These holiday carols would be after a night of hearing her wind-up clock every hour on the hour and the fuzz of her police radio coming from the hallway.
Everytime we went to see her I was asked, “Are you still one of those vegetarians? You must not get enought iron.” or told, “With your eye makeup like that, you look like one of those burlesque girls.” That’s my favorite Grandma J.-ism. Years later, I now take it as a compliment.
Things changed when I was seventeen. I had to do a school project that involved interviewing an elder for a oral storytelling project. My dad pulled me out of school and we drove an hour and a half to go see her. In all of my growing up, I had never once wondered why she was the way was or what made her tick. That day I found out what she was made of, and came to appreciate how strong she had to be and hoped that a lot of her genes were passed to me.
When I graduated from high school I found myself taking little roadtrips to go see her here and there. I’d pick her up and we’d go to the buffet for lunch and she would introduce me to her friends and seem so proud to show her grandkid off. I miss having lunch with her, I hate that I am so far away.
I spoke with her on the telephone today and it was so good to hear her little voice. These days, she seems more gentle and soft spoken. I don’t think it’s the age, I think it’s because she knows me now. Grandma J. keeps me posted on the family, recites Norwegian words from her youth to me, and speaks honestly about how hard it is to grow old and lose the people you love.
Some days while at work, the church plays the same song as her wind-up clock. Immediately my brain goes back to her house. I think of the way the flowered tin of crayons smelled, how there were always fig neutons in the cookie jar, and her perfume bottles and lipstick in the bathroom.
Every year that passes she makes it a point to warn me that it will probably be her last year on this Earth. I know better though, she’s tough as nails. I think it’s her way of preparing me for life without her, which makes her the most wonderful grandma of all.
